Origins of a Templar
by Mithrilquill
Summary: A few moments from Alistair's past, and a glimpse of the future.


Origins of a Templar

_**Some Years Ago -**__**Chantry, Denerim**_

Two tweens kneeled quietly beside each other in the pews of the old Denerim Chantry. It was afternoon sacrament -when all the templar studies congregated in the chapel hall for prayer.

"Pst," the boy with the messed, black hair whispered to the fairer boy beside him. But he stood unmoving.

"Alistair," he tried again, nearly revealing his position to the Revered Mother. She quickly surveyed the rows for the origin of the whispers. Alistair shrugged at his counterpart, raising a quizzical brow. The Revered Mother slowly returned to silent prayer, head bowed and eyes closed. The dark-haired boy mouthed something unintelligible. Alistair blinked. The boy tried his mouthing once more, this time finishing with a wink. A small, hopeless smile played across Alistair's face. He cleared his throat.

"No, Rowland. I simply can't spare any more of my biscuits. I'm sorry. Now if you would leave me to my thoughts..."

"Alistair! Rowland!" the Revered Mother shouted, rather offended, startling all of the other _obedient _studies. The two boys almost winced at her barking, but they were accustomed to it by now. She rounded on them immediately, pulling them both from the pews by their ears. She rushed them from the chapel and eagerly turned her skeptical eyes on the two.

She pointed a finger in Alistair's face.

"Absolutely, _NO _foods out of the dining hall. Especially not in the chapel, during _sacrament!"_

She turned at Rowland.

"And you. Heedlessness, _frivolous_ concerns in time of quiet meditations. Private study for the both of you. I can only pray the Maker forgives your disruptive ways," she sighed helplessly before returning to the chapel.

The boys turned to each other and snickered violently before making their way to the library.

"Beats, sacrament," Rowland shrugged.

"I don't know, I was looking forward to a nap today."

"You don't _really_ have any biscuits, do you?"

"I wish. I prayed for some, though."

* * *

**~***~**

* * *

_**Some Years Later -**__**The Tower of Magi**_

"Oh! _There. _Right there."

"Where?"

"The far left. The one in the blue."

"_Where_? I don't see- Oh," he finished with surprise.

Rowland smiled devilishly.

"Right? I like her hair."

They scoffed. The two sat nonchalantly in the lower halls of the tower, just outside the apprentice rooms. They watched the flow of mages carefully as they came and went. Especially the females.

Rowland contemplated for a moment.

"You know, the best thing about duty in _this_ hall: these girls... none of the lot are sworn in yet. _All_ fair game," he smiled at a passing apprentice elf-maiden. She awkwardly turned away from the handsome templar understudy and quickly made her way to the rooms.

"Did you _ever_ pay attention to lessons?"

Rowland looked to Alistair confused.

_Often_.

"Its not like the girls in the Chantry. There are no vows to be taken. Once you're placed in the custody of the Circle, there are rules. And you just have to follow them."

"Well what happens if you don't?" Rowland's expression was bordering on disgust.

"Sometimes its really hard to believe you'll be a templar full stop, soon. Does the word _phylactery_ ring any bells?"

"Oh, right," Rowland nodded assuredly, "Fillactry." Alistair laughed heartily.

"You make me _so_ glad I'm not a mage. You're going to be a terrible templar. Phylactery is blood. Taken from the mage. So if perchance, oh, I don't know, one turns apostate; they're traceable. Anyway it serves as a pretty major deterrent. Even for the more petty standards."

"Like messing about with an understudy?" Rowland was catching on.

"Exactly, like messing around with an understudy," Alistair patted his friend on the back. "Oh look, right there. The one in the red. Tall, blonde and _tranquil_. Just your type, mate."

* * *

**~***~**

* * *

_**Some Years Later, Yet -**__**The Pearl, Denerim**_

"We don't really have to go inside, do we?" Alistair whined.

"Come on, you fool. Its raining out. And I hear the service here is _utterly_ incomparable."

"Oh, come on. Really? _Utterly?_ Like breasts?" Alistair rolled his eyes. "Some things never change, I suppose."

Rowland laughed throatily.

The two men made their way into the shady structure. The insides were a stark contrast to the grimy, wet city outside. There were ribbons of all deep colors strew from the walls. Velvet cushions on the arm chairs, with sparkling beads embroidered onto them. The bar could easily be summed up in one word: Alluring.

A shapely hostess women wearing a dress with a rather low neck line approached the two.

"Handsome boys, you two. What can I do you for?" she spoke in sultry tones. Alistair was blushing already.

"Uh," Rowland scoffed at Alistair, "We'll just have a table, miss. And a flagon of your finest sweet-mead. With a couple glasses, dear," he winked at the barmaid. She giggled playfully at him and lead them to an empty booth in the back of the place.

"She's not flirting with you, you know. She's a _prostitute_," Alistair whispered resentfully at his friend.

"Oh, come on. Give me more credit than that. Of course she's a prostitute. But we're here for a drink, Alistair, not a poke-"

"Did you really just say that?" he couldn't suppress a laugh and pursed his lips in awkward embarrassment.

"Did you really think my idea of catching up with my old chum included prostitutes? I just needn't parade myself about the city, or a better known tavern. Better here, where no one wants to admit they've been."

"Right," Alistair realized Rowland's disposition.

"So, you're a Grey Warden, now," Rowland changed the subject quickly, and sized up his modest friend. Alistair smiled proudly.

"I am," he spoke matter-of-factly. "The last year has been interesting to say the least."

Rowland looked wistfully at his friend.

"Sometimes I do wish I could have been recruited, too." He paused and contemplated a moment. "I suppose it wouldn't have made much of a difference. Elinor was already in a condition when the Grey Warden came to the tower. Even if he had recruited me, I could never have left my girl," he finished sincerely.

Alistair thought carefully how to proceed.

"I guess I never knew exactly how things were," he began. "I knew you had met an apprentice, I knew you two were sneaking away after bed check. Then when Duncan came, the week we were supposed to take our vows, you disappeared along with Elinor and I was conscripted. But, they were calling her a _blood mage_. I knew _that _wasn't true, but I don't know much else. Indulge me?"

"Where to begin?" Rowland sighed. "As soon as I met Elinor, I knew I couldn't take my vows. Or at least, without being a blasphemer, and a liar, among other things. So when Duncan came, I knew you would be the one he chose. You deserved it the most. You weren't a man of the cloister and everybody could see that, from the second you got there. Anyway, with you surely off to join the Wardens, I couldn't stay in that place. Especially with Elinor about to face her harrowing. There was no way I could take my vows. So when I was sent with a party to go into the phylactery chambers a few days before I was set to take my vows -must have been an omen, a gift of another path, thank the Maker- they were transferring some other mage's to Denerim. So I found Elinor's when I wasn't being watched. And I took it with me. And here we are, aren't we? A year and a son later."

"As simple as that?"

"As simple as that."

Alistair tried to fit all the pieces together.

"You're a… a _fugitive_," he finished in a whisper, looking over his shoulder nervously.

"Well, technically, _I'm_ not. My wife is. I'm just a boy who wanted out of the cloister. Just like you."

"Well, don't forget the bit about how you stole phylactery in conspiracy with a _blood_ mage."

"You're quite the embellisher, aren't you?"

Alistair composed himself. It was frustrating when he couldn't understand people's motivations.

"Alright, Rowland. I get the part where you're in love, and where the woman you're in love with is… with child. I even get the bit where you don't want to take your vows. Of all bits to get, you know I get that bit. But you defied the Chantry, the Circle, to be essentially _homeless, _traveling with your family from place to place to avoid probably a death sentence. How can it be worth it? There are wanted signs, Rowland. And bounties."

Rowland remained quiet for a moment before pouring another glass of the mead the barmaid had delivered. Alistair tried to restrain himself from finishing his rant, but he couldn't.

"In all that is bewitching in the idea of love, your happiness solely depending on another person, _one_ person. Can you really be satisfied with that? At such a cost?"

"Alistair," he was never one for great words, "I have made the right decision., yes. And correct me if I'm wrong but you weren't too enthusiastic about spending the rest of your life as a celibate tool of the Chantry yourself."

"Maybe not, but I'd prefer that to ... _**death**_. I prefer it to running and hiding my entire life."

Rowland laughs as he comes to a realization.

"Forget it, laddy. I'm done trying to explain things."

"Wait, why?"

"Because… You are _still just a celibate tool." _

"Hey, uncalled for," Alistair sat back in the booth. "But I really don't understand."

Rowland sighed.

"Its simple: You just haven't met her yet. That's it. I won't waste your time trying to explain my devotion to Elinor. You'll have a see for yourself some day. Some little, ravishing thing will come along and say all the right things to you. And you'll do anything for her. Things you never even knew you could do. And you'll understand it. However bewitching you think it is now. I may be a simple man, but I'm reasonable. I wouldn't do anything I never wanted to. Its simple, like you said before. Simple as that."

Alistair brushes off the comments, tinged with seniority.

"Don't worry. I won't keep boring you with my romantic sentiments. We'll change the subject. I'm glad to see you well, my brother. Tell me about being a Warden."

Alistair tried to relax and enjoy the company of his old friend. And not let his Templar upbringing get the better of him. He poured a glass of the mead and went on to tell Rowland of his upcoming stationing in Ostagar. Unaware of what lay in his future and all of the things he would come to understand.

* * *

**A/N: A couple phrases borrowed from Jane Austen. And, I do plan on following this up with at least a one-shot or two, depending on feed back. So let me know what you think! Long Live The King! **


End file.
